


Revolver

by Delphi



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Missing Scene, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-07
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He should have known he'd gotten off too lightly with a 'Don't I know you?' and a day in jail."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolver

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 round of Kink Bingo. Kink: "Guns"

He should have known he'd gotten off too lightly with a "Don't I know you?" and a day in jail. Nonetheless, he wasn't entirely expecting Oren Travis to be waiting for him in his rented room when he came up from the faro table that night. And he certainly wasn't expecting the muzzle of a revolver to be jabbed into his back.

"Ezra," Oren said, just as casually as if they were passing in the street. He shut the door behind them, blocking out the light from the stairway and leaving the room in moonlight and shadow.

Ezra swallowed hard and did a fair impression of a man who hadn't just jumped out of his skin. "Judge." His fingers crept slowly towards his holster. "Now, is that a gun, or did you just miss me?"

Oren chuckled. It wasn't quite as warm a sound as Ezra remembered. "Take off your gun belt and hand it over."

The gun pressed harder into his back, driving him forward half a step. It wasn't loaded. Of course it wasn't. He had played cards with Oren Travis—

_The little back room behind the post office at Fort Laramie, and the whole crooked bunch of them holding their breath when the law walked in. Oren Travis stepped up to the poker table, stiff and strait-laced, and then pulled up a chair and demanded that Ezra deal him in._

—and he knew when he was bluffing. Or he used to.

His heart hammering, he unbuckled his gun belt and passed it back. Oren's hand brushed against his own before the belt was placed out of reach on the table.

"The derringer too."

He could feel hot breath on the back of his neck, coming just a little too quickly. The gun wasn't loaded, and Oren was fired up under all that careful calm.

"I'm not wearing it," he said.

Oren snorted. "I wasn't born last night, son."

The word sent a sharp jolt through him. He had an unfortunate weakness for disapproving older men, and in all his years of getting in trouble in nearly every state and territory in the country, Oren Travis had proved the best at bringing out the worst in him.

The gun moved, the muzzle running slowly up and down the small of his back. Ezra's chest tightened up, and he had to wet his lips before he could speak. "I can't deal cards all night with the rig on—it chafes terribly. It's in the wardrobe. You're welcome to look if you don't believe me."

If Oren turned his back, Ezra reckoned he could make it half out the window before the man got a shot off. If the gun was loaded. Which it wasn't.

Oren didn't take the bait, however. Instead, the barrel of the gun traveled up Ezra's right arm, gently tapping, seeking out the rigging. It slid across his shoulders and then tapped down his left arm, raising goosebumps in its wake.

"Take your jacket off."

Ezra's knees went momentarily weak. "If you're after my virtue, sir, you didn't need to come armed." He managed to keep his voice steady, still eying that window. The anxious throbbing in his stomach sank down lower.

_The empty gambling room at three o'clock in the morning when everyone else had cleared out. Another careful look. Then a hand on his waist._

"You drew on me, Ezra," Oren said, and the worst of the worry edged back, even as the smallest niggle of guilt turned in his stomach.

He had never been a blackmailer. He knew first-hand the sort of things a man could be driven to in the name of self-preservation. An Oren Travis who wanted to deal with an inconvenient loose end was something dangerous. But an Oren Travis who wanted to make him sorry...that was something else.

"To be perfectly fair," Ezra said, "you were trying to arrest me at the time."

"You should have told me you were a wanted man."

"You should have told me you were a married one." It was a low blow, but if Oren so much as batted an eye, Ezra didn't see it.

"The jacket," Oren said quietly. "I'm not asking twice."

Ezra shrugged the jacket off and let it drop to the floor.

"Shirt too."

With slightly unsteady hands, Ezra obeyed. He took off his waistcoat, his shirt, and then his undershirt. The gun pressed against him again, cold as ice.

"As you can see," Ezra said, "I was telling the truth."

"First time for everything. Anything in your boot I need to worry about?"

He swallowed down a quip over the thick lump in his throat. "Just money."

"Show me."

He had to lean back to kick off his boots. The cold muzzle jabbed harder into his flesh, but a warm, steadying arm came briefly around him. When he stood in his stocking feet, Oren tugged up one pant leg and then the other, presumably looking for an ankle holster.

The gun prodded him. "Against the wall. Hands where I can see them."

Three careful steps brought him there. He eyed the window again. It wouldn't be the first time he rolled off a roof half-naked. He could have dived for it, but he didn't. Instead, he braced his sweating palms against the faded wallpaper.

"You drew on me," Oren said again, and the gun kissed his throat.

_The wanted poster. His back hit the wall, and his derringer slipped into his hand._

"I wasn't going to shoot—" His words broke off with a gasp as the muzzle brushed over a nipple. His hips rocked forward.

"You almost made me shoot _you_."

A harsh sound escaped him as the hand not holding the gun tore open his fly in two sharp tugs. He heard a button hit the floor and bounce. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from making another sound as he was roughly groped—but he couldn't keep back a choke as the gun slid down.

It wasn't loaded. He told himself that over and over as his heartbeat pounded so loudly it was all he could hear and his fingers clutched futilely for purchase. He pressed his cheek against the wall, gasping as the muzzle traced his cock. He shrank back, but the blood only pounded harder, the heat spreading through him.

"Please..."

"I'm listening."

His brain scrambled to put the words together. "I'm sure...ah, I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement."

Forget hard feelings. He would be more than happy to settle all this on his back. It had been five, six years, but he thought a man like Oren Travis might still have it in him to fuck him so hard he couldn't walk straight.

"Open your mouth," Oren said.

He obliged, but before he could turn and sink to his knees, the gun was at his lips. He clamped his mouth shut, not even daring to attempt an "oh, _hell_ no." The barrel stroked his cheek, not as cold as it was before, warming from his skin. The hand on his cock started stroking him in earnest, and the muzzle pressed to his mouth again.

Shaking, shivering, he parted his lips. It wasn't loaded. You didn't stick a working gun into someone's mouth unless you were stupid or overly dramatic, and the Oren he'd known was neither. The barrel was pushed into his mouth, the sight scraping against his palate. His mouth already tasted of sharpness and metal, and the gun itself was cool and dull and nearly soothing. He closed his lips around it and, as Oren's hand stroked him off harder, did what he knew he was supposed to.

The sound of sucking and the soft smack of flesh on flesh rose above the painful thudding of his heart. His fingernails dug into the wallpaper, and he pressed back against Oren, feeling the unmistakable bulge against his backside. He gave in, letting the heat overtake him until he was straining and whimpering and sucking hard on the unyielding metal, until he was seeing blue sparks behind his tightly shut eyelids, until he was coming so hard that the breath halted in his chest and the floor seemed to fall out from under him.

He sagged and felt Oren catch him.

* * *

Oren let the gun drop. The revolver was army issue, his own during the war, and though it hadn't fired in years, he'd kept it as a good luck piece. It clattered to the floor as the boy slumped against him, limp and flushed and hot to the touch.

He held on, his mouth dry, until the boy finally got his breath back and turned on unsteady feet to face him.

Ezra's eyes and lips were red and wet, and his naked skin was a mess of sweat and more. His expression was dumbstruck, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but his voice had evidently left him. He looked, Oren thought with some small satisfaction, as if he'd had a taste of his own medicine. As if he knew exactly what it was like to fall stupidly for someone like Ezra Simpson and hit the ground hard.

"You drew on me," Oren said for the last time.

Ezra nodded slowly. He touched his lips, then visibly swallowed and finally managed to croak out: "I...apologize."

Maybe it was a trick of the moonlight, but no sooner had the apology passed the boy's lips than Oren thought he saw a glint rekindling in his eyes. Ezra leaned in even closer, and then Oren was being kissed hard, nearly branded by the heat of it. He held himself still for a long moment, wondering if the boy was about to go for that gun belt, but Ezra's arms came tight around him, and he finally closed his eyes.

He was nudged into taking one step back, and then another, and when his legs bumped up against the edge of the bed, like a fool, he let himself fall again.


End file.
